


It takes two to make a thing go right

by wildtrak



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - The Proposal Fusion, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildtrak/pseuds/wildtrak
Summary: How hard can it be to publish a book?Crowley and Aziraphale go undercover at the infamous publishing house Bilton and Scaggs to ensure that the next great work of prophecy is kept protected until it can be shared with humanity. When Crowley's human identity gets threatened with deportation, he must act quickly to make sure their carefully laid plans don't go awry.Aziraphale, desperate to read Agnes' second book, follows Crowley into a dubious scheme to ensure success of their mission—even if it means marrying a demon.A "The Proposal" AU/Fusion.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 56
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My undying appreciation to my wonderful beta and cheerleader diamondot who has kept me going, grateful thanks to KannaOphelia for a super-fast Brit-pick and immigration law advice, and of course much love to our fearless (and tireless) mod at GO Events, bisasterdi. 
> 
> All memes featured here are from Memegenerator or MakeaMeme.org.

“Anathema, darling, listen to me. You’re doing the right thing.” Crowley slides the Bentley sideways into a tiny parking space that has been conveniently vacated by an Opel Corsa. He climbs out of the vehicle with his usual serpentine grace, turning himself upside down to reach the pretentious-looking hipster satchel from the back seat. 

The revolving door out the front of Bilton and Scaggs makes way for him, nearly squashing the other humans already inside the chamber. Through the tiny speaker in Crowley’s iPhone, there is the distant sound of an angry witch throwing ceramic plant pots.

Crowley grimaces and holds the phone a bit further away from his ear, and the sound echoes in the cavernous glass cylinder of the main entrance. He waits there for a minute, inconveniencing two humans on the other side who are powerless to escape the enclosure now that it’s stopped turning. The sounds of botanical destruction eventually subside, and Crowley forges onwards. 

“That manuscript is the most important book anyone has ever seen, and your aunt wanted the world to have it.” Crowley presses the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he digs around in his jacket pocket for his ID pass. “You’ve already tried burning it and she just sent you another one. There’s no arguing with destiny I’m afraid.” 

Crowley illuminates the lift button with a wave of his hand, and the left-most carriage arrives on the ground floor with the occupants looking a little green around the gills, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Anathema is shouting directly down the phone now, and Crowley tries to smooth over the mistake. The word destiny makes the witch twitchy. 

“Sorry, sorry. I know it’s not fair, but you’re the heir to Agnes’s legacy, don’t you want to make sure that the humans have a fighting chance next time the apocalypse comes around?” The other occupants of the lift shuffle further away from him, keeping their eyes trained forwards on their own reflections, expressions alarmed. Finally, the bell dings for Crowley’s floor.

“So you’ll send me the first chapter?” Crowley asks as he enters the editorial bullpen. “Great, I’ll have Aziraphale send you back the signed contract.” 

Crowley pockets his phone and surveys the flurry of activity that has erupted on his arrival. The pinging cascade of online messages follows him as he walks down the center aisle between the junior editors’ desks. 

After years spent perfecting his technique for growing the ideal indoor plant, Crowley has adapted the same method for workforce management. Aziraphale had tried to argue that it isn’t appropriate for plants, let alone the higher class of mammals that work for Bilton and Scaggs, but Crowley wasn’t to be deterred.

“What are you all looking at me for? You have work to do!” he yells, and fifteen human heads duck back to their screens like they’re on the olympic synchronised swimming team. Crowley nods in approval, and marches into his office where Aziraphale is waiting.

“Good news, angel. We’re getting the first section today.” Crowley breezes through the door with a triumphant smile. Aziraphale jumps up from the stack of books he’s inventorying and drops a fresh takeaway coffee in an ethically sourced cardboard cup on Crowley’s desk.

“Really, that is marvellous news. The higher ups will be so pleased! You’ve outdone yourself this time.” Aziraphale does an awkward fist pump, and Crowley just shakes his head with a withering glare.

“If I wanted praise, I’d ask for it,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale gives him a decidedly soppy smile. Crowley changes the subject. “Any messages?”

“Beelzebub wanted a status update by lunch-time yesterday, but you’d already gone out to lunch with that new internet author you were trying to sign. Dagon called, and said and I quote ‘get that miserable bastard to call me back, I’m not talking to an angel’, so I have no idea what that was about. Otherwise, there are a handful of press enquiries and that terrible woman from the Young Conservatives rang back asking about her submission. I told her we only deal in non-fiction, and she called me a godless heathen.”

“So, business as usual then?” Crowley picks up the coffee and sprawls into his two-thousand pound ergonomic chair.

“Quite. You know, I’m still not clear on how you managed to get the job of Editor in Chief. You don’t even like books.” Aziraphale re-opens the book he was reading to the marked page and resumes taking notes. 

“Oh come on, you think anyone else around here in the upper management knows anything? It’s the assistants and the editors who keep this place from going belly-up. Besides, the witch called me, so you can blame her.” 

It’s their first team assignment (officially sanctioned), and Aziraphale wants to do a good job so that both Heaven and Hell will see the value in letting them work together. But he has definitely drawn the short straw getting stuck as Crowley’s assistant. 

They’ve embedded themselves at Bilton and Scaggs to oversee the publishing of the world’s next great prophetic work, and to preserve Heaven and Hell’s respective interests. Neither Heaven nor Hell would have chosen them for the task, if it weren’t for the fact that they’re the only angel and demon that can coexist for long periods without trying to discorporate one another. 

So Aziraphale answers the phone and reads books, and Crowley schmoozes and wiles people into parting with their souls, money or intellectual property, depending on the particular situation. It works, after a fashion. 

“Aziraphale, what happened to my coffee?” Crowley sniffs it with suspicion, and opens the lid.

“Nothing, nothing at all. Why do you ask?” Aziraphale avoids eye contact.

“You know how much I hate miracled coffee.” Crowley frowns as though he’s been gravely insulted.

“I do know, thank you very much. I’ve only had to listen to you complain about it for a few thousand years…” Aziraphale’s glare is waspish.

“The only reason I ask is that it says ‘coffee’ in Enochian in the latte foam. And unless that barista who fancies you has _really_ been doing his research—”

“Oh all right. I admit it. I miracled your coffee. I’m sorry.”

“Because mine spilled.” Crowley gives him a knowing grin. “All over your shirt, if that shoddy miracle work is anything to go by.” Crowley steps closer to take a better at Aziraphale’s shirtfront, where the coffee stain is only partially repaired. There are a few obvious stray flecks of foam on the collar. 

“Some idiot ran into me in the hallway. You could fix it for me?” Aziraphale gives him a sad-eyed pout, and Crowley just laughs. 

“Now’s not the time angel, we’ve got more important things to attend to. Get your phone and follow me. We’re going to see Hastur.” Crowley disappears into the bowels of his office desk looking for something, yelling a triumphant ‘aha’ and emerging moments later with a large hurriedly bound printout of the Bilton and Scaggs employee conduct manual. 

Aziraphale taps out a quick warning to the other staff, sighs, and drops his own half-drunk coffee cup in the rubbish bin. 

“Hold this angel, and follow my lead.” Crowley slaps the manual onto Aziraphale’s chest, and flings the door to his office open. 

The editorial staff (at least the ones who have heeded Aziraphale’s warning) are all looking industrious as Crowley strides past. There are a few startled yelps and hasty alt-tabbers, all of whom Aziraphale favours with a disappointed frown. He is _trying_ to help them, but the lure of wasting time on the internet is too strong even under the shadow of Crowley’s iron-fisted rule.

He’s seen the demon tear strips off one staffer after another for slacking on the job, and Aziraphale has even witnessed him using his infernal powers to catch people out—Crowley has a sixth sense for knowing when someone is using Facebook for something other than book promotion. Now, Crowley bypasses them all, for once not stopping to scream at them, instead making a beeline for Hastur’s office. 

Aziraphale clutches the document to his chest like a shield. He knows intellectually that he’s safe here, and that Hastur won’t try anything, but being in a tiny office with not one but two demons goes against every angelic survival instinct he has. Crowley seems unbothered, even emboldened by their change in circumstances, and marches up to the edge of Hastur’s desk.

“You were supposed to deliver the first chapter of the manuscript yesterday.” Crowley glares down at the other demon. Aziraphale watches as Hastur’s black eyes narrow, sizing up the opposition with a sneer. 

“The witch is completely unreasonable! She said she was going to burn it if I came within a hundred yards of her house. I don’t know how far that is, but it sounds far.” Hastur’s voice trips up into the high-pitched squeal that Crowley has come to know means he’s feeling the strain. 

Crowley seizes onto the weakness. 

“Are you telling me that Hastur, Duke of Hell, couldn’t get one lowly witch to do his bidding?” 

“I told you, she can’t be reasoned with. I tempted her with everything: money, fame, a more attractive husband, nothing worked!” Hastur throws up his hands. 

“Well, just wait until the Dark Council hears about this,” Crowley says, and Hastur’s already deathly pallor goes another shade greener. “I’ve told you before, you’ve got to move with the times. You wouldn’t know the first thing about doing a bespoke temptation, customised perfectly for the individual target. You’ve been doing the same one-size-fits-all lust and greed schtick for centuries, and it just doesn’t get the job done.”

“If you think the Dark Council will listen to you…” Hastur starts, but Crowley cuts him off.

“They will, unless you do exactly as I say. You’re finished. I’m firing you here for violating the employee conduct code and I’ve sent the HR department the logs from all that porn you downloaded on the company internet—”

“What, I’ve never even used the—” 

“—and they were shocked, let me tell you. So pack up your shit, and get out. Go back to Hell and tell them I’ve got it all under control.”

Crowley turns on his heel and strolls back out into the bullpen, pushing Aziraphale out ahead of him. 

“You traitorous prick!” Hastur storms out into the common area. “You can’t fire me! If you think Upstairs will give you what you want you’ll be kissing their arses for the next eternity. You won’t be forgiven. You’re a disgrace, just like the rest of us. You may think you’re top shit, but you’re nothing! Nothing, do you hear me!” 

Crowley’s shoulders go tense for a moment, but he turns around with a sharp smile.

Crowley steps closer, so only Hastur can hear him. “If you don’t leave this office immediately, I’ll have Aziraphale here smite you, and film it on his phone, and we’ll send it along with my notes about what a shit job you’ve done to the Dark Council. The angel won’t care who is watching.”

Hastur’s mouth snaps shut, and he eyes Aziraphale with renewed alarm. 

“You’ll regret this, Crowley. Mark my words,” Hastur spits, and straightens his jacket, smoothing the lapels and scooping up a stray maggot that has escaped. 

“Ciao.” Crowley waves as Hastur leaves.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale touches his elbow, and Crowley finally notices that they’ve drawn a crowd.

“If the rest of you want to keep your jobs, find something to do!” Crowley bellows at them, and they all scurry away.

“I think that’s enough disruption for one day,” Aziraphale says reasonably as he tries to steer Crowley away from the bullpen. 

“Oh I’m just getting started. There have been a few more editors that have really _disappointed_ me. Phil needs to be dealt with. I didn’t think it was possible to fuck up worse than The Pasta Bible, but here we are.” Crowley sways in Phil’s direction, where the editor in question is cooking something with fish in it in the staff kitchen.

“Well, unless they've got an industrial wood-chipper in the basement, you'll have to be content with firing Phil too. He's much too big to fit in the kitchen garbage disposal, which I know is your preferred solution.” Aziraphale’s diplomatic demeanour does nothing to quell Crowley’s volcanic irritation.

“I'm motivated enough to try,” Crowley mutters darkly.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley stomps back to his office with an imperious air. Some of the younger editors have referred to it as something called a “murder strut”—Aziraphale isn’t sure where they come up with these ideas, but he can’t deny the description is apt. Crowley flings his jacket towards his chair from the other side of the room, and it lands (perfectly hung) across the chair-back. 

“Right, now that Hastur is out of the picture, no doubt they’ll send someone else.” Crowley frowns and looks out the glass wall of the office. They have a marvellous view of the Gherkin, which Aziraphale is fairly sure used to be obscured by some other buildings before Crowley claimed the corner office for himself.

“Are you sure that was a good idea? Hell weren’t terribly happy with how things were going as it was.” Aziraphale sits back down at his desk, and covertly retrieves and re-warms his own coffee which has had the audacity to turn stone cold in the bin while they were away.

“Maybe not, but Upstairs won’t let them do anything rash. Heaven weren’t exactly comfortable with two demons involved either, so I’m just averting a diplomatic incident ahead of time.” There is a hollow note to Crowley’s voice that is only noticeable to someone who has known him for several thousand years. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “And the real reason?”

Crowley deflates a bit at the question. “Hastur has a temper. I don’t want him anywhere near this assignment. He thinks you’re immune to hellfire and if he has one of his moments, he’s just as likely to set the whole place alight.” 

“You don’t think he’d actually try attacking an angel?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to find out.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you. But I still think it was risky.” 

“Angel, if this all goes right we have a chance to move forward from centuries of distrust and mutual contempt. I’m not keen on being the poster demon for anything, but if we can just pull this off, then maybe we can get some fucking peace for once.”

“I understand what you’re trying to do, really. And I would love nothing more than for it to work out. But you’re taking on far too much responsibility if you think this can fix the rift between Heaven and Hell.”

“Well, they’ll change their tune once the book’s published. I’m sure of that much.” Crowley waves away Aziraphale’s concerns with a rakish grin.

“You told me Anathema hasn’t let you read it,” Aziraphale pouts.

“She hasn’t.”

“Then how can you be so sure?”

“Because something has got to give, and we can’t keep this up forever. I just need time to get the right pieces in place, so the board is stacked in our favour. Then the future can take care of itself.” 

Aziraphale’s phone rings. They both stare at it for a moment—the same way one might stare at a bird that’s flown into the window or something equally portentous—until Aziraphale sighs and picks it up.

“Crowley, they want to see you upstairs.”

“What!? Upstairs, upstairs?” 

“No, um, just the humans,” he whispers, holding one hand over the mouthpiece.

“Ok, fine. Come and get me in fifteen minutes. We have shit to do.”

“Anthony Crowley, the man of the hour!” A reedy voice greets him from the shriveled husk of what used to be the vibrant, go-getting CEO of Bilton and Scaggs. He’s neither a Bilton nor a Scaggs by lineage, but he has inherited the same penchant for disgustingly expensive pens and drinking too much single malt. They’ve been the defining traits of every human who has held the post. 

Pickling himself in alcohol for the last forty years has left Harry Hornsfeld with a slightly jaundiced complexion and sunken eyes, which leave a residue of ickiness on everything they look upon. Any time spent here leaves Crowley feeling creeped out to the very depths of his soul—and he’s used to Hastur.

“Hornsfeld.” Crowley greets the man without looking him directly in the face, and instead smiles winningly at the other two humans who are already in the office. Crowley has seen them around on occasion. The woman is from HR, and the bloke he recognises as a Marketing exec from one of the interminably painful office parties. It takes Crowley a moment without the context of seeing the man in a state of dishabille, in the copier room with one of the junior editors in his lap, but “um, er, sorry, we haven’t met, I’m Stu, Stuart Babish,” is hard to forget.

“We were just telling Horny here how big of a bump you’ve given our sales figures for April,” Stu tells him, and Crowley tries not to visibly wince at the boss’s travesty of a nick-name. 

Hornsfeld raises a gnarled pointer finger in his direction. “Indeed, which is why I was a bit troubled by the reason Nancy called this meeting. Crowley, is it true that you’re not a Londoner?” 

Hornsfeld is depressingly narrow-minded about people Not From London, and needs very little encouragement to start trumpeting on about the monarchy and who exactly was on the right side of Brexit. Fortunately for Crowley, Nancy nips that in the bud. 

“Yes sir, Crowley’s Scottish. You knew that when you hired him,” she gives Crowley an apologetic shrug. 

“Right, of course. Got to have a bit of diversity around these days!” Hornsfeld says, decisively. 

While it’s not strictly true—seeing as Crowley’s origins predate the invention of the British Isles—as far as the Department of Immigration is concerned, he is indeed a Scot. Being largely allergic to actual hard work, Crowley has reused an existing alias and identity for his current assignment. 

Anthony J Crowley (Jnr) is the younger brother of the esteemed child development specialist Mrs Ashtoreth (née Crowley, widowed), both of whom hail from the picturesque village of Portree in the Isle of Skye (according to their birth certificates). The identities are forgeries of the highest quality—robust enough to withstand the American Secret Service background checks that Nanny Ash required for her post at the Dowlings, and Crowley hadn’t seen the point in recycling another _nom de guerre_. 

Inconveniently, the Isle of Skye is located in Scotland, which recently declared independence from the rest of the UK after the Brexit fiasco (which Crowley claimed credit for). Courtesy of some changes to the UK’s free movement immigration policies, being Scottish is now a deportable offence unless you file the right paperwork. In person. In Scotland. Which Crowley has not. 

“I’m sorry that it has come to this,” Nancy hands him a termination letter, “But you’re being deported. We received notification from the Department of Immigration that we can no longer legally employ you, unless an appropriate visa can be secured. Someone must have reported you to the hotline.”

“Guys, come on. This is ridiculous! I’m the best you’ve got.” Crowley feels a line of sweat start to bead along his hairline, which rudely doesn’t go away when he tries to banish it with a wave of his hand. 

“I’m sorry Crowley, truly. If there was any way we could keep you, we would! Nancy tells me there’s nothing to be done. You’re not an English citizen by birth or marriage.” Hornsfeld frowns, disappointed. “We’re giving your portfolio to Dr La Vista, so if you can help with the transition, that would be appreciated.”

“I just fired Hastur!”

Aziraphale chooses that moment to interrupt, knocking on the door and pushing past Hornsfeld’s secretary who tries to deny him access. Behind her, a large stack of paperwork topples onto the floor, distracting her long enough for Aziraphale to jam himself into the open doorway. 

“Good day, everyone.” He waves awkwardly. “Crowley, you have an urgent call from the Frankfurt office. I told them you were otherwise engaged, but they insisted.” 

Crowley pauses. Aziraphale blinks at him. Aziraphale, who is the living embodiment of white lace doilies, commemorative teaspoons and ill-mannered Corgis—tremendously English at any rate. An idea forms. He beckons Aziraphale closer with a furtive hand gesture. 

“Er, yes, of course. I completely understand. It’s just been such a whirlwind few months and I should absolutely have sorted out the paperwork.” He drags Aziraphale closer by the arm. The angel gives him a bewildered smile, but lets Crowley move him around until they’re posing side by side in front of the desk. He’s learned to go with the flow whenever Crowley is planning on bamboozling humans, and while he has no idea what the plan is, he tries to act natural. 

“But you see, Aziraphale and I, well, we’re getting married,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale nods supportively, until the content of what he’s said finally sinks in. Aziraphale spits his chewing gum so far it lands on the forehead of the bust of Mr Bilton in the corner, forcing Crowley to perform an urgent concealment curse. 

“We are?” Aziraphale looks at him like he’s grown another head. Crowley’s face makes a complicated series of expressions, settling on desperation. “We are. Getting married, of course we are,” Aziraphale says, and this time it’s slightly more of a statement than a question. 

“Look, the truth is, we were just two people who weren’t meant to fall in love. But we did.” Crowley avoids Aziraphale’s eyes, keeping his gaze fixed on a point over Hornsfeld’s left shoulder. But he doesn’t miss the sudden intake of breath from Aziraphale beside him.

“Er, yes. Exactly,” Aziraphale nods vigorously. 

“Well, when it’s love, it’s love, you know?” Crowley rambles, and goes in for a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel misses the cue, and he ends up kissing the side of Aziraphale’s nose. 

Nancy—who also happens to be the president of the Inclusiveness Committee to which Aziraphale has contributed several hundred delicious cupcakes—gives them an excessively encouraging smile.

“Isn’t he your assistant?” Hornsfeld frowns.

“What, like none of you lot have ever fished off the company pier, am I right?” Crowley addresses Stu with a smug grin. 

Hornsfeld gives them both a mystified but none-the-less encouraging smile, pleased to be keeping his top performer despite a lingering discomfort with the specifics of the situation. “Well, in that case, I’ll leave you two to sort out the legalities, and we can get back to business.” 

Crowley bids them a good day, which Aziraphale echoes with a lot less enthusiasm—the words he forces past the frozen smile are slightly garbled. Crowley mutters something about deserving a BAFTA under his breath, but Aziraphale can’t hear it over the strange ringing in his ears. It sounds oddly like one of the more experimental celestial harmonies that some of the younger angels are into. 

It’s an awkward shuffle out the door when Aziraphale refuses to relinquish his death-grip on Crowley’s hand, but the door shuts behind them with an unusual sense of finality.

“Well, looks like we’ve got this diversity thing in the bag,” Hornsfeld says to Nancy, who sighs deeply. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Crowley, stop right where you are!” Aziraphale regains the ability to speak in whole sentences once they reach the sanctity of Crowley’s office. “I would like you to explain to me what just happened, because either I have a severe head injury that I wasn’t aware of, or you just decided that we’re engaged.”

“I was thinking on my feet—something I’m not sure you’re familiar with, considering the number of times I’ve had to rescue you,” Crowley adds, crossing his arms.

“I don’t see any evidence of conscious thought at all if you think suggesting we get married is the solution to anything.”

“It’s called improvising, angel. I’m not letting this go belly up because Hastur had one miserable bit of demonic inspiration and used it to ruin my day!” 

“So you’re saying that in the spirit of convenience, I will have to marry you.” Aziraphale gives him a snide glare. “You do realise how preposterous that is.”

“It’s not a real marriage, it’s just some paperwork for fuck’s sake. Humans get married and divorced all the time. It’s not like it’s permanent!” Crowley turns around and heads for the glass monstrosity that is his work desk.

“Marriage isn’t something to be taken lightly!” Aziraphale’s face turns an ugly shade of purple and he puffs up like a frog. “You know how Upstairs feels about it. It’s not something one just does for a joke.” 

“Well, we’ve got the makings of a very successful bitter divorce if this conversation is anything to go by,” Crowley mutters as he rifles through the paperwork in his under-desk filing cabinet.

His filing system leaves much to be desired, and Aziraphale hadn’t been inclined to assist him in that area. So Crowley has simply kept miracling the drawer capacity to accommodate each new mountain of paper that crosses his desk each week—all of which now erupts onto the floor when he finds the papers in question.

“You know, for someone who claims to be a minimalist, you really need to work on your hoarding.” Crowley favours him with a glare and clicks his fingers to conjure a flame, flicking it at the mess on the floor. With a whooshing sound, the papers all turn to ash. 

Aziraphale coughs pointedly, and makes a show of checking that none of the humans outside have seen anything untoward through the very transparent glass door. Crowley ignores him and flips through the pages of the immigration booklet. 

“Besides,” Crowley continues as though Aziraphale hasn’t interrupted. “They won’t find out. We’ve kept our little arrangement secret for centuries, and it’s not like we’re getting married at St George’s. It’s one lousy bit of paper in the bowels of the immigration department. No one will find out.”

“I just think that I ought to have equal say in any plans you may hatch. I know you’re the one with all the experience with lying and subterfuge…” Aziraphale says, but Crowley cuts him off.

“That’s a bit rich coming from you, angel. Of the two of us, I’m not the master manipulator!” Crowley says, and Aziraphale goes very still. Several curious faces now watch them from outside the glass window, while simultaneously trying not to seem like they’re eavesdropping. 

Crowley sighs. “Look, we’re in this together. Hastur will dispose of you the moment I’m gone, and you’ll be dragged back to Heaven to explain. Any chance we have of keeping the peace will evaporate, and whatever is written in that book will be twisted and bastardised by whomever gets to the witch first. Whether you like my tactics or not, if you want to get your holy little hands on that manuscript, you’ll have to stick with me.” Crowley scribbles his signature on the immigration forms and folds them back up. 

Aziraphale eventually nods, squaring his shoulders and reaching for his coat. 

“Right. Well. Best not keep Her Majesty’s public servants waiting any longer. Let’s get this over with.” He flings the door open. 

Phil and his gaggle of iniquitous compatriots all give Aziraphale knowing looks. Karen’s expression is one of pitying dismay, and she throws her stress-ball at Phil before he can say anything truly appalling.

Aziraphale does his best to hold his head up high, and calls back to Crowley.

“Coming dearest? We need to hurry if we want to be back in time for your two o’clock.”

Crowley doesn’t answer, just saunters out of his office and across the bullpen, leaving Aziraphale to follow. The curious onlookers track their movements all the way up the hall, until the lift doors finally hide them from view. 

* * *

There is a queue stretching in a serpentine loop from one end of the cramped room to the other. Someone in their optimism has put out a collection of seatbelted bollards, but in the chaos and disarray of the deli-style take-a-number system, funnelling the customers into a single lane has just made things worse. 

The booth on the far side lights up with a new number and Crowley pushes past the clumps of backpackers and aspiring au pairs holding a hastily conjured matching ticket above his head. Aziraphale is left to follow in his wake, apologising for the personal space intrusions until they both make it to the service desk. A chorus of nasty looks follow them. 

“How can I help you?” The desk is manned by a bland and balding chap in spectacles who waves them over. 

Crowley breaks out his very best temptation voice and purrs silkily through the small gap in the glass. “Hello David,” he glances at the name tag, before giving him a saucy wink. “My fiance and I need you to file a visa for us. And if you would be so kind as to back-date it two months on the computer, that would be grand.” David’s expression glazes over, and he nods, wandering off to the large filing room at the back. Technically all of this could be done online, but in Crowley’s experience it’s much easier to hack a person than a computer.

The sound of wind-chimes in the distance catches Aziraphale’s attention, and he swings around in a hurry, searching the crowd behind them for the source. There is no celestial flash of gold, and no white uniforms in the queue, so he turns back to Crowley, who has gone unnaturally still beside him. He lets out a sound that he would in no way characterise as a scream when he notices that David is not the one behind the desk.

“Goodness! Uriel. I wasn’t expecting to see you here!” Aziraphale says, grabbing Crowley none-to-gently by the arm.

“You two, come with me.” Uriel points to the large security door to the left of the service desks.

“What are we going to do?” Aziraphale hisses at him when Crowley doesn’t move. 

“I’m thinking… look, just follow my lead and it will be fine!” Crowley straightens up and saunters towards the door with an affected nonchalance that would send Aziraphale’s blood pressure climbing if he had such a thing. 

“After you,” the demon says, pushing a reluctant Aziraphale ahead of him through the door. 

The office is cramped on account of the enormous size of the desk Uriel is sitting behind. Crowley and Aziraphale have to fold their knees carefully under the edge as they sit down in the squeaky old metal chairs. The seats are as unforgiving and cold as Uriel’s expression.

The angel stares them down for several minutes, and Aziraphale tries and fails to not fidget. Uriel takes a long and purposeful drink of water from a freshly miracled glass, but doesn’t offer anything to either of them. 

“Aziraphale,” Uriel says finally. 

“Uriel, it’s um, good to see you. What have you been up to lately?” 

“We’re here to discuss what you’ve been up to, Aziraphale. I’ve heard some troubling news.”

“Well, I… or rather we—” he casts a nervous glance at Crowley, “—have been doing our very best to make sure the project is on track. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Crowley here has secured the first chapter of the manuscript. It’s all tickety-boo!”

“So you say. But Heaven have some concerns about your loyalty. We’ve received an intelligence report from Hell that has some very worrying information.”

Aziraphale feels the hair rise on the back of his neck, but Crowley dives in.

“Would that information happen to have come from Hastur?” Crowley spits out the other demon’s name with an overly dramatic eye-roll. “Don’t tell me you’re really going to take the word of a disgraced Duke of Hell over an angel? Aziraphale is one of your own!”

“I’m not convinced of that, demon. And what? I’m supposed to take your word for it too, am I? As far as I’m concerned, neither of you can be trusted. I’ve never believed what Gabriel said— that you’re favoured by the Almighty. If you weren’t under a protection order I’d be dropping this holy water in your lap.” Uriel taps their water glass with a manicured fingernail, as some condensation slides ominously down the side.

“I promise, there’s nothing untoward going on. It’s all above board.” Aziraphale says, trying to put himself bodily between Crowley and the waterglass in the limited space available. Crowley glares at him when he carelessly treads on a snakeskin booted foot. 

“So how do you explain why you two are here, filing a visa that says you’re engaged to be married? Especially when the demon in question is about to be deported to...” Uriel checks the file in front of them. “...Scotland?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, eloquently.

“Because it’s true. We are getting married.” Crowley says, and Aziraphale’s eyes bulge further out of his skull. 

“A demon, and an angel? I know I’ve made jokes in the past Aziraphale, but you can’t be serious?” Uriel stares at him, with what might actually be a hint of surprise.

There is no way out, Aziraphale realises. They’re committed to the charade now and the only way to keep them both alive is to give the performance of several lifetimes. The multitude of ways this can all go wrong start to unravel in his minds’ eye, but Crowley’s hand reaching out and closing around his own snaps him back to the present.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and raises his chin. “We are serious.”

“Yeah, well, y’know…” Crowley nods vigorously. “We thought, what with the spirit of cooperation and all, that it was time to make it official. We are earth representatives after all. Stands to reason we should set a good example.”

“A _good_ example?” Uriel raises an eyebrow.

“Figure of speech.” Crowley mutters.

“A demon being altruistic, you’ll have to _forgive_ me if I sound skeptical.”

Aziraphale hums to himself for a moment, wracking his brain for an argument that Uriel will find compelling. The other angel looks expectantly at him, and the silence stretches.

“Crowley is capable of doing good deeds and I intend to prove it,” Aziraphale says in a rush. He can feel Crowley going a bit tense beside him, but he barrels on. “Think of this as an opportunity to encourage other demons to be redeemed—wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing? _Repent therefore, and turn again, that your sins may be blotted out_ et cetera, et cetera…”

“Redemption?” Crowley says through gritted teeth. Aziraphale kicks him in the shins, and thanks his lucky stars that Crowley’s volatile expression is mostly concealed by his glasses. 

Uriel starts to scribble some notes down on the page, before looking up with an unconvinced expression. “And how exactly were you planning to get married? You do know that marriage unions have to be conducted in front of the eyes of the Almighty? That it’s a holy covenant?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale says, quickly.

“Angels can’t just go around getting married like humans...and to a demon no less! Something this unorthodox will need sign-off from the very top.”

“We were just waiting for the right time,” Crowley says, agreeably. “Engagement announcements are obviously a very serious matter, and we wanted to do things properly.” The demon holds their linked hands up in a gesture Aziraphale presumes is meant to convey propriety and sincerity. 

“I won’t keep secrets for you, Aziraphale.” Uriel warns. “You will tell her at the Heavenly Retreat this weekend. Attendance is mandatory, so I know you were planning to be there already. Bring your demon, and tell the others.”

“The Retreat. Yes. Right.”

Crowley shoots him an alarmed look, but nods anyway. “Yes, of course, we’ll both be there. In Heaven. This weekend,” Crowley says, voice gone inexplicably hoarse. 

Uriel is hard to read at the best of times, but now the angel is completely inscrutable. They speak in a flat voice, no intonation and no personality.

“You do realise what is at stake if this is just a ploy. Heaven might have accepted the need to work with demons, but if you are doing this just so a demon can keep his job, then that’s treason. You’ll fall, and the demons will eat you alive.” They regard Aziraphale and Crowley both with a blank yet ominous expression, before turning laser-sharp eyes onto Aziraphale. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tries to smooth out the unhelpful arrhythmia his corporation’s heart seems to have developed over the course of the meeting. Crowley drops his hand when his phone buzzes, and Aziraphale is forced to ignore the sudden rudeness.

“With all due respect, I’ve said all I plan to on the matter. Crowley is my fiance. I am marrying him because I love him.”

“How convenient.” They give him a dismissive nod. “Well, I see how it’s going to be. Just know I’ll be watching. If anything seems suspicious, I will not hesitate to bring the wrath of the Almighty herself down on your head. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale swallows audibly. Crowley doesn’t even appear to be listening, and is busy tapping at the screen of his phone in an increasingly agitated manner. 

Uriel slams the folder closed, and Aziraphale feels it like a gunshot to the heart. 

“Great, excellent, we’ll be in touch. Come on angel. We’ve got places to be.” Crowley snaps back to attention, finally looking up from his phone and standing. He wrenches the door open, almost braining himself in the process, and hurries Aziraphale back out into the busy waiting room.

* * *

Aziraphale waits until they’re back onto the street before the urge to yell exceeds his capacity to suppress it. Crowley hasn’t acknowledged anything that’s happened in the last fifteen minutes, and Aziraphale is starting to wonder if he might have some kind of serious memory condition, when he starts muttering about organising flower arrangements.

“Crowley! Stop!” Aziraphale’s voice is angelically shrill, and the crowd of people waiting at the nearby crosswalk all give him nasty looks.

“What do you want me to say, Aziraphale?” Crowley stalks towards him, hissing. 

“Tell me you’ve at least got some kind of plan! That this isn’t just another one of your harebrained schemes!” 

“Harebrained schemes!” Crowley yells back. A small crowd is gathering. “I get it, angel. You don’t have to spell it out for me. I’m not a moron.” He holds up a hand when Aziraphale goes to interject. “Whatever you’re going to say, just stuff it. We can do this, as long as you unbunch your knickers and get with the program.” 

“You never even asked me,” Aziraphale’s voice comes out sadder than he intends. 

“What?” Crowley replies, pausing his ragey stomping in confusion. 

“I said, you never even asked me. You just told people we’re getting married. I would have liked to be consulted of course—before you turned both of our lives upside down—but there’s no point in crying over spilt milk now. So ask me nicely.” Aziraphale raises his chin. 

“Angel, there are people looking.” Crowley has finally noticed the gathering crowd, all of whom have sensed that drama is afoot.

“If you really loved me, you would have asked properly.” Aziraphale’s tone is haughty and he addresses the words to the audience, so he misses the way that Crowley’s shoulders flinch at the words. 

“Fine!” Crowley approaches at high speed, and folds himself onto one knee on the ground as gracefully as his tight jeans will allow. A gasp goes through the crowd. “Angel?”

“Crowley.”

“Will you, for the love of all that is holy, unholy or of indeterminate holiness, marry me?” Crowley fumbles for a minute, cursing the snug fit of his jeans.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees pleasantly, and walks away, leaving Crowley hanging with a hastily summoned engagement ring still in his back pocket. 

Some angry cursing and a few moments later, and a herd of gooey-eyed humans wanders into oncoming traffic, suddenly unable to remember the last fifteen minutes of their lives. 


	4. Chapter 4

The flight from Heathrow to Cardiff is scheduled to take a little over four hours, but with a bit of demonic intervention the plane might have to divert via Hawaii. Fortunately, with a bit of angelic intervention, they won’t have to endure a two week layover on a tropical beach, and Crowley will get to go to Heaven after all. 

“It’s not too late to flee the country, angel.” Crowley flips idly through the in-flight magazine, marvelling at the inanity of the content. 

He gets sucked into an article about how the best thing about Rome is the people, which leads to a rehash of the same row he and Aziraphale have been having since the first century about who was the worst Roman politician. Crowley would like to point out that they were all dreadful. Aziraphale would like to know whose fault that was. Crowley will admit nothing. 

“I took the liberty of pilfering one of these immigration guides while we were at the office yesterday. Apparently the humans will want to conduct a ‘Spouse Visa Interview’ which Uriel has kindly scheduled for Monday. There are questions we will need to prepare for.” Aziraphale hands Crowley the pamphlet. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it angel, people have been confusing us for a married couple for centuries. I guarantee we’ll pass with flying colours.”

“Fooling the humans is one thing...” Aziraphale frowns as he scans down the page. “Do you know the names of my parents?”

“I suppose we can’t tell them we have the same mother can we?” Crowley ponders that for a moment, then makes a choked sound. 

“I believe that sort of thing is frowned on, yes.” 

“Let’s just keep it simple. We’ll stick close enough to the truth. My parents are dead, you have an overbearing mother who you don’t speak to except for awkward family reunions.”

“Crowley, promise me you’ll take this seriously.” Aziraphale gives him a sidelong glance that’s tinged with a bit of desperation.

“I solemnly swear I will do everything I can to avoid either one of us being discorporated this weekend.” 

“Thank you.” Aziraphale sounds mollified, for now. “I’d like to be the one to make the announcement, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure angel, whatever you want.”

“It’s just, well… there hasn’t been a celestial marriage before, and I’m really not sure what kind of reception we’ll receive when we make the announcement. I know we’re following all the protocols for a proper marriage, but no amount of bowing to tradition can get around the fact that I am an angel and you are a demon.” 

“So we’ll ruffle some feathers. It’s about time someone shook up the establishment. Heaven could do with a bit of an attitude adjustment.”

“I suppose. Sandalphon does love to gossip. I’m sure this will keep the mill churning for a few millennia.”

“S’fine. We’re doing a public service.” Crowley puts his seatback into a reclined position (much to the annoyance of the person sitting behind him), and closes his eyes. 

Aziraphale sighs audibly, and sends a minor miracle towards the engines in the hope that their trip will be over soon.

* * *

Crowley is not thrilled to discover that the reason the flight takes four hours is because there is a stopover in Amsterdam, where Aziraphale has to forcibly march Crowley onto a much smaller plane for the final leg of the journey. The high-pitched whine of the propellers at least prevents any further conversation.

* * *

When they finally disembark, weary and in desperate need of a hot shower and a lie down, the sun is starting to dip. The arrivals lounge is cluttered with happy families and busy corporate fliers, so it takes them a while to exit through the large glass doors that adorn the front of the boxy grey building. 

Outside, an old Gilbern GT idles at the curb. Aziraphale spots Michael behind the wheel first, and is distracted for a moment. He’s taken by surprise by the small woman holding a big white sign saying “Welcome Home Aziraphale” and jumping up and down on the spot. The bright smile on the woman’s face wavers for a moment when she sees Crowley, but she greets Aziraphale with a motherly hug.

“Principality Aziraphale, it’s so good to see you! It’s been an age!”

“Yes m'Lord. Um, I’ve missed our chats.” Aziraphale flushes, and Crowley can feel the burn of divinity emanating from the deceptively harmless-looking human vessel. 

“You didn’t tell me he was bringing a friend!” This is addressed to Michael, who is still sitting frozen in the front seat with a horrified expression on her face.

“Ah, yes. I hope you don’t mind. You remember him of course.”

“Of course! Now, do you go by Crowley these days, or Satan’s mistress? We’ve heard it both ways...”

Crowley chokes on nothing, and Aziraphale’s eyes go wide in panic. 

“Ah, yes. Well. About that...” Aziraphale grabs him by the hand to stop him from turning around and running the whole way back to London. “I know I used to say some unkind things about Crowley in my reports, but the truth is that over time, I’ve come to consider him as more than just an adversary. He’s my best friend.”

“Have you lost your mind, Aziraphale?” Michael shouts out the window.

“Now now, Michael,” God admonishes her. “What is it that I’m always saying about my wayward children?”

“The wool from a black sheep is just as warm,” Michael replies with an angry mechanical cadence. [1] 

“That’s right!” God pops open the boot of the car and miracles their luggage inside. “Come on you two! We’re going to have so much fun!”

* * *

The suspension on the old GT is in dire need of replacement, and despite Michael finding every possible pot-hole in the road, the journey through the countryside is pleasant. Crowley sits in silence while the two angels and the Almighty natter on about inconsequential things, and tries to ignore the crawling feeling under his skin that comes from being this close to a possible smiting. 

Outside of the initial jibe about his relationship with Lucifer, God makes no mention of his demonic status and seems entirely prepared to just gloss over everything—which Crowley doesn’t quite know how to deal with, seeing as he’s been privately shouting at her at regular intervals for the last 6000 years.

They crest the hill and a beautiful vista of a tiny lakeside village greets them. Michael takes them through the centre of town, pulling up outside a pokey fish and chips shack on the edge of the water. 

The lake is deep and crystal clear, with shiny pebbles and white sand lining the beach next to the dock. A luxury speedboat is moored alone next to a small platform of weathered wooden planks, bobbing gently in the calm waters. 

Although it’s a clear day, the other side of the lake is barely visible in the distance, and Crowley feels a mounting sense of trepidation as he drags his uncooperative suitcase across the lumpy stone pavers that line the path to the dock. 

Aziraphale has packed much lighter, not encumbered with the probability that his powers won’t work in Heaven, and seems content to watch Crowley struggle and offering no assistance. Michael (no doubt intentionally) drops his suitcase in the water as they load the boat, offering insincere apologies and assurances that it “will dry right off”. 

Through all of this, God herself just sits in the back of the boat and watches them with a benevolent smile. The motor roars to life, and soon the boat is skimming along the glassy surface. Just in case, Crowley stays well away from the spray, and hunkers down on the other side of Aziraphale, as far away from the Almighty and Michael as the space in the boat will allow. 

The waterline swoops off in a long and graceful arc to the left and soon the tiny dock they departed from is completely hidden from view. In front of the boat a small group of dolphins leap playfully in front of the bow, diving and dodging until they tire of the game. Crowley watches them with idle curiosity, and tries to ignore the bemused stares from the other more celestial occupants of the boat. 

Eventually, the rocky tree-lined shore breaks away into another beach and through the gap in the forest, a large house looms into view. Calling it a house is actually inaccurate—it’s a massive and historic-looking manor, complete with rambling ivy on the stone walls and quaint dormers peeking out along the roofline. The lights inside glow warm and golden, inviting all to enter and curl up by the crackling fireplace. Crowley hates it immediately. 

Michael slows the boat to a slow putter and glides it to a stop at the long boat ramp. 

“Who’s she trying to impress with that?” Crowley hisses at Aziraphale who has already hopped off the boat. The angel ignores Crowley, instead staring at the heavenly mansion with a beatific smile and sighing to himself—until Crowley jabs him in the side with a pointy elbow. 

“Crowley, will you at least try to be gracious?” Aziraphale’s disappointed eyebrows dare Crowley to complain further. 

“No promises.” Crowley drags his suitcase onto the boat ramp and pushes past him, not bothering to mind Aziraphale’s shins as he goes.

* * *

  1. Michael herself has never seen The Sound of Music in the traditional sense, but she thought it prudent to miracle a full recollection of every line into her memory for occasions just like this one. She's been hoping for a raise, so she's trying to capitalise on every scrap of good will, even if it physically pains her to do so. [back]




End file.
